


Sherlock Holmes: Agent 221

by theinvader5



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst (probably), Espionage, Multi, Romance (maybe?)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvader5/pseuds/theinvader5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a senior operative at MI6 under the direct command of his brother Mycroft. Trained as an assassin, he is sent after deserter and wanted fugitive John Watson. After cornering his target Sherlock is prepared to subdue John and complete his assignment but is persuaded by John to bring him back to MI6 so that he can prove his innocence. Mycroft, after hearing John's story and recognizing his potential usefulness as an operative, allows him to live on the condition that he join MI6 and become Sherlock's partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no idea where this story came from. It just sort of popped into my head and I fell in love with the idea. It's definitely inspired by my love of all things Bond, especially the beautiful imagery from the most recent installment, Skyfall. It will be spanned over several chapters and updates may take a while but I think it will be worth the wait. This is the first fanfic I've ever posted online so constructive criticism and comments would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading.

John gripped the side of the bathroom sink and stared into the mirror.

 

Only two weeks had passed since he'd deserted his unit in Afghanistan.

Had it been that long? Sometimes it felt like hours, other times years, as if the concept of time as a fixed unit of measurement no longer had any bearing on his life.

 

He supposed murder would do that to you.

 

They'd just arrived in Marja a few days ago, a small agricultural town in the Helmand Province, passing through on their way to Lashkar Gah. The platoon had made  camp just outside of town in the desert scrub that surrounded the area. He remembered his junior officer and girlfriend of two months, Mary, commenting on how tired she was of seeing the same dry, arid landscape day after day. She'd taken his hand and told him they should take a walk through Hyde Park as soon as their deployment ended and they were back in London. John had agreed and cheekily mentioned something about taking her behind a tree as soon as he got the chance. She had slapped him lightly on the cheek and pretended to be offended.

 

He'd found her in her tent bleeding out through the back of her skull three days later.

If only they hadn't had that fight the day previous then maybe they wouldn't have pinned it on him. But there wasn't anyone else with a motive and he was the last person anyone had seen her with. Besides, it's awfully hard to deny a murder charge when you're crouching over the body covered in your girlfriend's blood.

 

John panicked and ran.

 

In retrospect he thought it might have been better to stay and face the charges, try and prove he was innocent somehow. But he hadn't and now he was a wanted fugitive on the run from the law.

 

And that's how he met the British government and his little brother.

 

 

\----------

Sherlock straightened his jacket and wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. It had been close. Very close. The hotel room had been absolutely demolished during the struggle and his suit was probably ruined, but he'd gotten the job done. The tall, dark haired man knelt down beside his (now neutralized) target and checked for vital signs. Finding none, he reactivated his wireless link, pressing a small button on the side of his watch. "Target eliminated. Requesting cleanup crew and transport back to headquarters." A pause, the crackle of static. "No. The previously agreed upon location was too exposed. Followed the target on foot to his hotel about a half mile out." Sherlock rolled his eyes as the voice on the other end answered him. "I am not catching a cab wearing a £500 suit that's covered in fresh blood. That'd rather blow my cover, don't you think, Sally? Yes, I thought so. Now if you don't mind?" Sherlock severed the link and stood once more. After retrieving it from the bed, he pulled on his greatcoat and, stepping around the pool of blood that was seeping into the carpet, slipped from the room.

An hour later, he was in the elevator heading down into what appeared on a map to be the empty space beneath a government office. As it happened that blank space actually housed the 'backbone of the country' as Mycroft liked to say. Sherlock just called it MI6 or HQ.

He typed in the access code that allowed him into the system, following the voice prompts as they instructed him to state his name, rank, operative ID number, and submit to a retinal scan. After he had proven that he was who he said he was, he was taken directly to the hub of MI6 operations. Sherlock followed the maze of corridors until he was standing outside two very large solid oak doors. He stepped toward the desk that sat to the left of the doors and plucked a phone from the hands of the secretary that sat there. Stealing her phone was usually the only way Sherlock could get her attention and anyway, it was fun to sneak up on people.

"Afternoon Anthea. Reporting in. How much longer do you think he'll be?" asked Sherlock. 

Anthea scowled at him before replying. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes. I'll call in and tell him you're here. Soon as you give me back my phone that is." 

Sherlock smirked and tossed the phone into the air. "Buzz him on the intercom. It's faster. And then I'll give it back."

The secretary sighed and pushed the intercom button on her desk. "Mycroft. 221 is waiting outside for debriefing."

Sherlock threw her the phone as he heard the locks in the doors click and stepped forward into Mycroft's office.

Mycroft looked up from his papers and gave Sherlock an appraising look. "Ah. Sherlock. Your assignment was completed successfully I hope?" 

Sherlock nodded and sat down in one of the plush chairs that sat in front of Mycroft's gigantic desk. "It was fine. Rountine. Do you have another?"

The elder Holmes shook his head. "You just finished that last one. I definitely value hard work, but you _are_ allowed to take breaks you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had never really understood this obsession with 'time off'. The time between jobs was dull and empty, a measure of hours and minutes that he had to suffer through ocaissionally, usually in order to begrudginly tend to the needs of his body. "I don't need a break. I need a job. As soon as you have one. I'm bored Mycroft. I haven't had an assignment that got my blood racing for weeks now. Just recon and the ocaissional hit. I want a chase, a hunt. Preferably one that involves pursuing a target with half a brain. So if you have something, which I expect you do, then give it to me and let me be on my way. If not, I'd like to go down to the lab to see if Molly's finished testing that rash of poison capsules I formulated." 

Mycroft sighed and looked at his brother. He'd been a bit on edge since Irene had disappeared. She was his first partner after all and they'd become quite close. Sherlock might not want to admit it or even know it, but he needed a partner; it was dangerous for him to work alone for too long, given his...disregard for convention and conscience. He was without a doubt Mycroft's most talented operative but above all, Sherlock was his brother and he was worried about him.

Mycroft handed Sherlock a manila folder stamped with the MI6 seal and watched him flip through the pages. 

"John Hamish Watson, formerly a captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He's trained as a doctor, no criminal history. A little over two weeks ago he deserted his unit after murdering his girlfriend and junior officer Mary Morstan. He has evaded capture by police so well that they have lost track of him completely." Mycroft watched Sherlock's eyes light up. He'd always liked murderers. "He's a Class 4 target."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Class 4, you say? Been a while since I've gone after one of those," he smiled down at John's picture. "I'll take it."

"I want him alive, Sherlock. Do you still want it?"

"Of course. Alive's not a problem." _In one piece on the other hand..._

"Are you sure?" 

The younger man traced the edge of the picture with his fingertips before dragging one nail across John's throat. He looked up and smiled a smile that made Mycroft's blood go a little cold.

"When do I leave?" 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I'm so sorry it's taken this long for me to update but my life was sort of insane. Please continue to leave feedback in the comments as I am always looking to improve. I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. I researched, but there's only so much you can do when you're writing about a secret government organization, you know? Thanks for reading.
> 
> *Note- This is an AU so some things might be ooc or canonically incorrect. For example John only has suspected PTSD and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. His gun shot wound and psychosomatic limp might come into play later but for now they are not part of this story.

  

Four days, twelve hours and thirty seven minutes. That was how long it took for Sherlock to pick up Watson's trail.

The man had done an excellent job covering his tracks, especially for a guy with no criminal record, but Sherlock was trained to find people that didn't want to be found. Four days was a rather impressive amount of time when it came to avoiding Sherlock Holmes, as tracking was something of a specialty for him. He was known to seemingly conjure up a suspect trail out of thin air, connecting documents and places that seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with each other. But Sherlock could see the connections that others couldn't, the invisible footprints that people left behind. He had followed the hints and the whispers like a trail of breadcrumbs until he found himself in Jalalabad only a week behind his prey. He moved through the alleys of the city like a shadow, wheedling information from the oblivious residents, tourists and refugees like John, men and women on the run, attempting to escape from prying eyes. They could all breathe a sigh of relief and sleep soundly tonight because Sherlock was not looking for them. But John H. Watson, the soldier run away from home, for him it was as good as over, and his pursuer hoped he lived up to his obvious skill as a criminal. He hated it when targets were disappointing and dull. Took all the fun out of killing them. It was a shame Sherlock wasn't allowed to kill Watson. He'd be fun, he thought. He'd probably fight and struggle, like a fly caught in honey before meeting his inevitable end. Would he scream and beg for his life as Sherlock watched his blood flow over his fingers? Or would he eventually lie still and accept his fate with resignation in those dark blue eyes while Sherlock slowly squeezed the air from his lungs? It didn't really matter, since he'd been ordered to bring him in alive if at all possible but the thought added some much needed interest to the hours Sherlock spent on stakeout.  

Sherlock smiled to himself as he strode out of a cafe, having found out from the owner which neighborhood John was staying in. Now all he had to do was wait. Wait for John Watson to make a mistake. It shouldn't be long. No matter how good they were, they always screwed up eventually. He reached into his trouser pocket and stroked the edge of Watson's photograph with his thumb, smiling to himself. Not long now, Watson. Not long at all.  

 

 

 

...............................

 

John had been on the run for a week before it hit him that Mary was dead.

He'd been sitting in his roach infested motel room, staring at his army boots on the floor when an image of Mary's smile just flashed through his head. His throat had closed up and an ache bloomed in his chest and then suddenly he was sobbing with his head in his hands. The tears had dripped from the end of his nose and landed on his boots, cutting little paths through the crusty layers of dirt that covered them and all he could think of was the way her eyes had looked staring up into nothing.

John had seen many corpses before Mary. As an army doctor, he'd seen people die in every way he could think of; infections, diseases, IEDs, knife wounds, gunshots, blunt trauma, poison. It always amazed him that human beings could come up with endless and imaginative ways to kill each other, and yet he was still using needles, thread, and prayers to patch up wounds. Humans would always know how to inflict injuries by the thousands but John wasn't sure they would ever be able to figure out how to heal them as efficiently. He'd watched many men and women draw their final breaths, heard the plaintive cries for loved ones, seen the fear in their eyes and he had watched those same eyes go glassy and still, the light snuffed out like a candle before a breeze. Some of them were strangers, some of them friends, a few had even been enemies but they had all hurt, they had all left that dull sense of sadness in his bones, the weary resignation that comes with another life lost.

But Mary, Mary was different, this feeling was new. This was a weight in his chest, a burn in his eyes, a pain in his heart. If he went back to London, she wouldn't be there. If he went back to Lakshar Gah she wouldn't be there either. She was simply....nowhere. Vanished, like smoke in a rainstorm. He'd never see her smile again. And his question was 'why?'

It was a good question and one that was starting to burn in the pit of John's gut like hot coals.

Who would have done this? Why would they pick Mary, sweet Mary who kept a picture of her cat Lucy in the top left pocket of her uniform, who always visited John in the medical tent on Fridays and walked with him to the canteen, who smelled like oranges and always remembered everyone's birthday? John didn't have an answer and he hated it. He had to know. Even though he knew that violence was often random and nonsensical, there had to be a reason why Mary had been killed, and John intended to find it.

 

The question was his first mistake.

 

The second was trying to answer it.

 

John started to dig, visiting bars and slinking through alleyways, looking for news, for any scrap of information regarding the murder he was sure was becoming more and more well known at least within the country and certainly within the military. He was careful. He stuck to using side entrances. He stayed away from cameras. He kept his face hidden whenever possible. He went out at odd hours. John could only hope that they weren't circulating his photo as that might mean bad publicity for the military. He assumed that the government would want to keep this under wraps as much as possible. So for now, he felt reasonably sure that he had successfully evaded his pursuers. And he was right to some extent.

 

But he was so very wrong as well.

The night was cool, the desert air dry and crisp on his skin as John stepped out of his motel room, locking the door behind him. He walked down the stairs on the side of the building and headed for the main drag about a half a mile away. The pub he chose was crowded and noisy, a blessing as John's task required a certain amount of anonymity. He approached the bar and ordered a pint, paying little attention to who he sat next to, instead scanning the outskirts for the drug dealers, money launderers and thieves. Those were the people that knew things, the people that could give him answers. So when he sat down next to a tall, dark-haired man in a black trenchcoat, he didn't think much of it. He smiled at the stranger who smiled back politely and slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket to crumple the picture inside.

 

 

........................... 

 

Sherlock did not believe in God.

He did not believe in fate, nor destiny, providence, karma, or any form of spiritual reciprocity or divine intervention. 

He did, however, believe in probability, and the odds of his mark choosing this particular pub had been extremely low. The man had been up and down the main drag in the past few days so Sherlock had set up shop in a different place every night in an attempt to find a pattern in his movements. Sherlock had sat at the bar because it offered an unobstructed view of the street and had been prepared to get up in pursuit of Watson at a moment's notice, should he pass. He was quite surprised then, when the man strode in and pushed his way through the crowd to sit at the bar. Watson flashed him a quick smile then returned to scanning the crowd and Sherlock's answering grin was completely genuine as he was imagining beating the man bloody and dragging him back to London clapped in irons. He quickly wiped the smile from his face and slipped on a mask of civility, his eyes losing their malicious glitter and taking on a shine that spoke only of friendly interest. Slipping easily into a casual South London accent, his own clipped tones too out of place, he turned to speak to his prey.

"Um, do you need me to move? You seem to be looking for someone and there's no seat open next to you so..." Sherlock let the sentence trail off as he tapped his glass of beer (vile drivel) nervously, already spinning a safe and boring backstory to feed to Watson.

The blonde man turned to him once more. "What? Oh no, no you're completely fine. I'm just looking around that's all. Uh, I'm Andrew Bateman. What's your name? If you don't mind me asking." Sherlock was a little taken aback by Watson's apparent willingness to share. However, it was useful to know his alias, even if he wouldn't be using it for much longer.

Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "Good to meet you. I'm Charles. Charles West. I'm here on business for the engineering company I work for. I'm a Londoner." He gestured to himself with a timid little smile. "Obviously. You're from London too, yeah? Vacation?" 

"Yeah...vacation....just sort of taking a break from it all, you know? Have you um, been here long?" Watson's body had turned toward him slightly, an unconscious gesture of openness and vulnerability. Sherlock grinned inwardly. This would be too easy.

"I've been here a few weeks now. I leave in two days though. It'll be nice to get back home. Are you just here by yourself?"

The other man looked down at the tabletop and looked...sad? Upset? Guilty? Didn't matter. Sherlock didn't care about the target's feelings unless they could afford him with some kind of advantage. He took the opportunity that Watson had given him by looking away and proceeded to scan up and down his body, taking in the worn army issue boots, the newly purchased shirt and old jacket over it, the lack of a weapon. Now he just needed to know where he was staying.

Watson looked up, a strained smile stretching his lips. "Yeah, I'm here alone. Bit lonely I'll admit but it's nice being away from people sometimes."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "True...only thing about staying here is the hotels are shit. I'm about two miles North. My room's got roaches something awful. Dreadful beds too. But the city itself is quite nice. Greener than I thought it'd be." 

"Yeah me too. But that's what happens when you travel on a budget. It is beautiful here, though. Jalalabad's considered to be one of Afghanistan's most beautiful cities."

Sherlock had hoped Watson would give him a clue as to the general location of his hotel but it seemed the man was too careful for that. They kept chatting for a while about Sherlock's fake job, the city, and to Sherlock's utter horror, football. God is this what people do? Sit in bars and talk about their pathetically boring lives? He was starting to itch for the Browning strapped to his ribs when they hit the half hour mark but Watson didn't seem like he was going anywhere anytime soon. The man kept probing him for answers, asking innocuous little questions about military movements, local crime, the news. Sherlock knew the answers to most of his questions but, of course, Charles didn't, so he feigned ignorance.

Eventually, Watson seemed to realize that Sherlock didn't have the information he was looking for. By then the crowd had thinned out considerably and there were only five people left sitting at the bar including himself and Watson. The soldier finished his drink and stood up. Sherlock stood as well and put enough money on the bar to pay for both their drinks. Watson immediately began to protest. 

"No I can-"

"It's alright. It's not much anyway. Think of it as a thank you for the good chat," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound genuine. _  
_

They left the pub and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. After some awkward goodbyes, Watson raised his hand in a wave and for a moment Sherlock was worried he had wasted all that time talking to the man, when he suddenly turned back. "Hey...you going my way? I'd rather not walk alone if I don't have to. And if we're going the same direction..."

Sherlock dug his nails into his palm to keep from grinning like a lunatic. Maybe he'd start believing in luck after all. 

"It'd be my pleasure."

 

 

 

 

.................................

 

Had anyone asked John why he'd ever trusted Charles so immediately that night he couldn't have answered. He just...did. There had been a genuine quality in those strange, quicksilver eyes. John hadn't questioned a single word that came out of the man's mouth. He wanted to trust him.

Maybe that was his weakness in the end. That he wanted to believe that people had good intentions. That he wanted to give people the benefit of the doubt. Everyone was innocent until proven guilty after all and besides, he now knew what it felt like to be wrongfully accused.

Besides, he was a fugitive from the law. Who knew what kind of people the government had sent after him? It would be stupid for him to walk home by himself unnecessarily. Safety in numbers, right?

 

He and Charles walked along the main street together, neither of them saying much. It was the slightly uncomfortable silence of strangers but still John was glad for the company. He'd been feeling so alone the past few days after losing everything so quickly. It was nice just being around another person, and Charles seemed like just a regular guy, unremarkable except for his appearance and even that was limited to his obviously striking features. There was nothing especially noteworthy about the way he carried himself or the way he spoke. He was just...an average bloke as far as John could tell.

Before long, they turned the corner and came within sight of John's motel. John felt a bit embarrassed letting Charles see it. It was a rundown old place with stucco walls and a neon sign that needed to be repaired. He turned to Charles at the edge of the sidewalk. "Well, this is me. Thanks for walking with me and good luck with everything. Have a safe trip home." He smiled and turned to walk to his room. 

"Yeah. Same to you," Charles called back.

 

When John got to his door he looked back toward the street but the other man was already out of sight. He unlocked the room and stepped inside, not bothering to turn on the lights in the room, and walked into his tiny bathroom, shutting the door part of the way and turning on the tap. 

John stood in front of his mirror and sighed. As much as he'd liked Charles, the fact remained that John hadn't gotten any information from the man, meaning he'd have to try again tomorrow. He was beginning to think that this was all rather pointless; he hadn't gotten any useful information from anyone so far. Maybe he should just turn himself in...but who would believe him? He was the prime suspect. Turning himself in was suicide.

He was just about to dry his hands and turn out the light when he heard a knock at the door. John froze. His first thought was that it must be the police; they'd finally caught up with him. He couldn't get arrested, not now, not when he still didn't know anything about Mary. But on second thought he realized that it didn't make sense for them to knock; if they wanted him, why announce their presence? Why not just storm in? They'd have the element of surprise then wouldn't they? John decided to just go see who it was. It was probably the clerk asking for more payment. He'd only given him enough money for four days and today was day five. He supposed it was time to switch motels anyway. 

Drying his hands on his jeans, John stepped toward the door and peered through the peephole. He couldn't see anyone so he assumed that whoever it was had walked down the breezeway already. If it was the motel clerk, John reasoned, he should go after him or risk getting charged extra so he opened the door and glanced to the left.

There was a flash of movement to his right and then a blinding pain as a vicious blow was dealt to the side of his head. Arms wrapped around him and he was thrown bodily back through the door and into his room. His head hit the wall with a thud and bright lights bloomed across his vision. When they cleared, John was surprised to find the cold metal of a British Army Browning L9A1 pressed to his jugular and a pair of grey-blue eyes staring into his own. He couldn't see the face of his attacker, only his outline, made sharp by the light streaming in through the door. The figure grinned, revealing gleaming white teeth that made John think of a wolf about to devour a rabbit. Then the man spoke and John nearly jumped at how different the voice sounded from just moments ago when he'd heard it last; it had become cold and menacing, a low purr that set his nerves on edge.

"Evening Dr. Watson," said Charles.

  

 

 

...............................

 

It was easy in the end, getting to Watson. Granted the man had given Sherlock a fair chase but ultimately, gaining his trust was absurdly simple. Watson had been so careful up until then, but he was naive and that would be his undoing. But then, Sherlock supposed it wasn't entirely the other man's fault; he was damn good at what he did. He wasn't a top agent just because he looked good in a suit.

 

As soon as he saw which room Watson went to, Sherlock slipped around to the back of the building and waited until John was inside. He then walked around to the front again and headed for the motel office, pulling out his wallet as he went. He stepped up to the counter and put on his best smile for the clerk. "Hello. I'm looking for someone," Sherlock said in Pashto. He decided to just describe Watson since it wasn't likely that the man had given his name. "Can you tell me what room he is in? He left his wallet and I need to return it to him." He held up his own expensive, black leather wallet and the clerk nodded, pointing down the breezeway. Sherlock smiled and thanked him, walking toward the room the clerk had indicated with slow measured steps so he wouldn't alert the man to anything. He calmly knocked on the door then stepped to the left of it, out of the way of the peep hole and the window. He knew that Watson had no reason to suspect anything and would probably open the door unarmed. After all, what kind of attacker would knock first? However, he thought Watson might become suspicious if he showed up at his door trying to persuade him to let him in. He was a familiar face now, yes, but Watson had to know that people were looking for him. The man wasn't a complete idiot; he wouldn't have let Sherlock in.

The tall man drew his gun and crouched a bit, putting his weight into the balls of his feet, ready to move, ready to react. He was trained for this and he could confidently predict what Watson would do; he was left handed and would most likely look in that direction. Sherlock would respond with a blow to his head to disorient him. Watson was trained as well; Sherlock needed to make sure the man couldn't fight back properly. As much as he would relish a fight, Sherlock didn't want to attract attention here. Police involvement would spell trouble for the both of them and Sherlock would lose his prize. 

He heard the click of the door opening and sprang forward. John did exactly what he expected and Sherlock caught him on the side of the face with his pistol, opening a small gash on his temple. While Watson was still reeling from the blow, Sherlock lowered his center of gravity and quite literally hurled the smaller man backwards into the room. Watson stumbled and his head connected with the hard plaster of the wall. Sherlock was across the room and on him in seconds, checking for weapons before straddling him and effectively pinning him down. His breathing pattern had barely changed but he could hear his heartbeat in his ears and his face split into a wide grin. This was what he lived for, the moment when he won, when he looked down at his opponent helpless beneath him and knew that he was on a level they could never hope to attain. In these moments he was invincible, infallible, powerful. It was a beautiful, heady feeling and Sherlock sought that rush of adrenaline wherever he could find it. The field was the only place he could get it other than the lab, and that wasn't quite enough for him anymore, hadn't been for a while. But this, this was what it meant to feel alive.

 

Sherlock's eyes glittered in the dark as Watson's regained their focus and latched onto his. His mouth twitched at the look of alarm he saw there and the grin widened just slightly.

"Good Evening Dr. Watson," said Sherlock.

"You...I-I don't...who the hell are you?"

He smirked. "I know your brain is a bit muddled at present but do try not to be an idiot. You know who I am. 'Charles from the pub'," he said briefly adopting the South London accent. "Remember me now?" 

"But then...why?"

Sherlock patted his cheek fondly. "Come now Watson, the concussion can't be that bad. Is it not coming to you? I'm a little present from home. The Queen sends her regards. But I'm sure you can introduce yourself once I take you back to London. Oh! I nearly forgot..." Sherlock made a fist and sucker punched John in the stomach, taking the opportunity as he doubled over to reach around and pull out two zip-ties. He fastened them around the man's wrist tight enough that the skin around them went white. "Sorry about that. Had to get them on somehow."

He was about to pull back when Watson suddenly brought his head up with a sharp snap, hitting Sherlock hard in the chin and causing him to cut his lip on his own teeth. The tall man grimaced but managed to keep his grip on his captive. His jaw would definitely bruise. He gripped Watson by the hair and yanked him part way up, only to toss him back to the floor. The man landed face down and before he could make a move to get away, Sherlock was kneeling on his back, one of his knees digging sharply into Watson's spine. He pressed the Browning hard into the back of John's skull, rubbing his jaw with the other hand. "Ow. That-," he said pausing to lick a drop of blood from his lip. "-was rude. You're very spirited, though. I like that about you." Sherlock leaned in to whisper in Watson's ear, his voice dropping to a menacing rumble. "But I will beat you into submission if I have to. You may have gathered by now that I have been ordered to bring you in alive. I have not been ordered, however, to bring you in in one piece. I could shoot out a knee cap if that would make you more cooperative. Or maybe dig your eyes from their sockets? You don't need them to talk and I would gladly take up the task of relieving you of them. I will do it, I will enjoy it, and the only person who will be the worse for wear at the end is you. So I'd behave. Understood?" When Watson didn't respond, Sherlock pressed in harder with his knee until the soldier was gasping for air and nodding his head.

"Excellent." He didn't get up but he lifted some of his weight of of the smaller man. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve his mobile, he called his backup and gave them the address for the motel, giving instructions to have a car meet them around the corner. Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's shirt and pulled until he was forced to stand up then walked him toward the door.  

 

 

 

.....................

 

John could barely keep up with how fast things were happening. After Charles (John knew that was probably an alias but didn't know what else to call him) got him to his feet, he was lead to an unmarked black car and shoved into the back seat. Then there was the airport and a private plane and all the while the Browning was pressed into his side or his temple or his back. By the time they were ready to take off, John's hands were swollen and the pins and needles had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable about thirty minutes ago. He was pushed roughly onto the plane by Charles who assured him that everyone on board including the pretty stewardess who had smiled and winked at him knew at least five different ways to stop his heart if he tried anything. 

He was keeping up a facade of calm pretty well but John was inwardly terrified. The British government had been chasing him the entire time. He couldn't even wrap his head around that. Did they usually intervene in cases like these? Or had he stepped into the middle of something that was even bigger than he had originally thought?

 

John was pulled from his thoughts as he was shoved into a chair and bent at the waist. There was a snap and then the blood was rushing painfully back into his aching hands. Before he could really revel in the feeling though, Charles was holding his wrists in place while mechanized metal clamps came out of slots in the seat to hold down his hands. He did the same to John's feet so that he was effectively bolted to the chair. It was better than the zip-ties though; at least he could move his hands a bit, though the circumference of the clamps was small enough that he couldn't possibly get his hands through. Besides Charles was watching him with those bright, piercing eyes of his and they never moved from John. John found his gaze both magnetizing and alarming and had to make a conscious effort not to stare back. He looked to the man's mouth instead as his full lips parted in a smile. 

"Comfy?" he asked.

"No."

"Ah, well. We here at MI6 try to make the flights for our prisoners as uncomfortable as possible. If there's anything I can do to increase the discomfort of your experience, please let me know," he quipped dryly.

"You can piss off," spat John.

Charles laughed and stretched out his legs. "Oh very good Dr. Watson. I hope they don't decide to kill you. You're rather amusing. So full of ire. Maybe I can request to be your interrogator. You'd be a fun one for sure."

It was amazing how sinister a word like 'fun' sounded when it was coming out of that man's mouth and John didn't want to think about what that could mean for him. The plane took off and John was quiet for a stretch as he listened to the rumble of the engines.

"...I didn't do it," he whispered after a while.

"Hmm?"

"I said I didn't do it."

"Of course you didn't," Charles replied, rolling his eyes.

"Honestly, I didn't. You have got to believe me."

"I really don't actually."

"Please," John said letting some of his desperation seep into his voice. "I didn't, I swear to god. I know what it looks like, but she was my girlfriend and I loved her. We fought the day before, but it was just a stupid little thing. Trivial. I wouldn't kill someone over that."

The other man shrugged. "People have killed for less," he said giving him a pointed look. "You're a soldier. You should know that."

"Look at me and tell me I'm lying."

The gaze that was turned on him once he said that went beyond unnerving; John felt completely naked before those eyes, like they could see everything, literally everything about him, cataloguing facts and analyzing and he found himself shifting in his seat in a feeble attempt to escape.

 

Charles looked at him for a moment that seemed stretched taut like a rubberband before he finally blinked and started talking.

"Are you an only child?"

John stared at him. "I...what?"

"Just answer the question."

"No, but what does that-"

"Correct."

"What?!"

Charles leaned forward and continued studying him. "I was testing your tell, trying to find out what it was. It helps when trying to determine whether or not someone is lying, to have something to measure against. So I made a deduction and then asked you a question about it. You answered truthfully and correctly as I expected. Now for the lie: do you wank in the shower?"

John turned beet red and was so surprised that he answered the question, lying instinctively. "I- wh- no. No! Jesus Christ." 

A tiny smirk played about Charles's lips. "Liar. I've never met a man who doesn't. At any rate I think I've found it." He grew serious then and looked at him with that intense stare once more. "Did you murder Mary Morstan?" 

John stopped spluttering, closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath before opening his them to look back at Charles. "No," he said quietly.

Another tense moment passed but John didn't shy away, merely held the other man's gaze as he was scrutinized.

Charles sat back looking perplexed. "You're not lying."

"No, I'm not."

"At the very least you don't believe you're lying. Which either makes you insane...or wrongfully accused." Charles held up a hand. 'Don't go getting all excited. I'm not saying I believe you. But I suppose I can let you talk to M. He's my...commanding officer I suppose. I have to report in anyway and while we're there, I can ask him if I'm allowed to process you myself. I haven't done an interrogation in a while. Could be interesting," he said with a smile and John couldn't really suppress the little shudder that ran through him. He didn't know what to make of this one. Charles seemed like the kind of man that would kill him on a whim, just because he could. Yet John wasn't afraid of him exactly, though he knew he probably should be. Instead he was....intrigued? He silently berated himself. God, he hoped he didn't have Stockholm's or something. "How did you know anyway? About my sister?"

"Ah sister is it? It's always something. How did I know?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Same way I know that she's older than you and that you're on bad terms with her. Same way I know that she gave you the watch you're wearing. Same way I know she's worried about your PTSD. Same way I know that you're left handed and that you don't steady your shooting arm with your other arm. And the same way I know that stewardess is very much your type," he smirked. "I looked."

John gaped at him, stunned for a moment before letting out a short laugh. "That's...wow. Amazing. Can you do that with everyone or am I just easy to read? Can your....colleagues do it to?"

Charles looked vaguely surprised by the praise. "Simple logical leaps to make. And yes, I can do it with everyone, yes you are easy to read and no, most of my colleagues are rather inept. There is one other person that can do what I do but I try not to talk about him if at all possible." 

 

John waited for Charles to say more, but it seemed he was through talking for the moment. They sat in silence for a while before he rang the stewardess/trained assassin/lingerie model(?) and asked for some water. She brought back two bottles of Irish spring and left again with another appraising glance at John that he really didn't know how he should feel about. Charles unscrewed the cap on one of the bottles but didn't offer John the other one. He sat there and licked his dry lips before finally saying something. "You going to drink the other one?"

Charles tilted back the long, pale column of his neck and drained the bottle. "Wasn't planning on it, no."

"Can I have it then?"

"What are you going to do with a bottle of water?"

John gave him a confused look. "Umm...drink it? I'm thirsty."

"How are you going to drink it while your hands are tied?"

"Do you have a straw or something?"

"No. And even if I did I can't give it to you. Violation of protocol."

Charles didn't seem like the type of guy that followed protocol to the letter, but it made sense so John didn't push that angle. He didn't even want to ask this of the other man but it seemed that was his only option and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. "Can you, maybe...hold the bottle for me?"

Charles sighed. "If I do it will you shut up?"

"Cross my heart."

The man got up from his seat and stood to the side of John, holding onto the seat for balance. "Open your mouth." 

John obliged and Charles poured the water down his throat so fast he almost choked. He coughed a bit then glared at him. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. I hope you don't need the toilet during the next four hours because you only get one break. Otherwise, I'm not letting you out of that seat, nor am I holding a bottle for you to piss in."

 

Maybe saying this to someone that had abducted him and happened to be rather well armed was a bad idea but John is nothing if not brave. "You're a prick, you know that?"

Charles just smiled.

 

 

..................

 

The flight took a total of eight hours and it was early morning by the time they touched down at Heathrow. It being a private flight and considering that neither of them had any luggage, their disembarkation was quick and smooth. Sherlock managed to arrange for two sets of handcuffs with different chain lengths so he didn't have to use up more of his zip-ties. When they got off the plane Sherlock cuffed Watson's wrists with the short pair then took the other and cuffed his own right wrist. He took the other end and cuffed it to Watson's chain, giving it a little tug to test it. Watson blinked blearily at him as if confused by the restraint. He had just woken up so maybe he was. Apparently being cuffed to a chair has no bearing on one's ability to sleep. "What's this for?" he asked.

Sherlock chuckled. "Just because I'm taking you to talk to the brass doesn't mean I trust you. You're still my mark and I'm going to bring you in just like I would any other; handcuffed and at gunpoint." He ushered him into the car that was waiting to take them back to HQ, sliding in after him. They spent the ride in silence, Sherlock already feeling restless. Coming back to London always made him that way, made him ache for the secret side streets, the seedy dives and old, maze-like alleyways. He loved the city, loved how she walked the thin line between the light and the dark like he did, often melting into the shadowy space that was just shy of wrong. He wanted nothing more than to immerse himself in the cold, brackish waters of the underworld again, only coming up to breathe after he'd forgotten what sunlight tasted like.

 

They arrived at MI6 at around half seven and Sherlock was out of the car almost before it had stopped, pulling Watson roughly after him. The shorter man cursed as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's long strides but the tall man didn't slow down. They passed through what appeared to be an empty, disused office building and came to a lift where Sherlock punched in the monthly access code, bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently while he waited for the lift to get to their floor.

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his eye-roll. "I told you; I'm talking you to see M. This is Headquarters."

"But there's nothing here."

"Were you expecting a neon sign? A welcome mat perhaps?"

"Well no, but-"

"Look you'll see in a minute so just stop blubbering and come along. Or do I need to shoot you and drag you instead?"

 

The lift finally arrived and Sherlock stepped in, following the prompts for retinal scan, handprint, and voice recognition. The system required him to register his prisoner and assume responsibility for him while he was in the building. He took Watson's hand without asking and pressed it to the the pad. The computer ran his prints through then spit out an identification card which Sherlock then clipped to the man's shirt front. They then began the long descent into the earth before eventually arriving at the Control Hub of MI6 Headquarters.

Sherlock quick marched Watson through the corridors, ignoring the stares he was drawing. Usually, detainees were brought in through alternate routes but this was faster and Sherlock really didn't give a damn if it was technically 'against protocol'. 

They stopped once they reached Mycroft's office and Sherlock walked toward Anthea's desk only to pull her chair aside and buzz Mycroft himself before she could say anything. He smirked at her and pressed the intercom button. "It's me, 221. Let me in. I've brought you a gift," he said turning to Watson. 

The locks in the huge, reinforced oak doors clicked and Sherlock moved to open them, quite literally dragging Watson in after him. He pushed him into one of the chairs in Mycroft's office, standing behind him and pressing his gun into his neck. "Delivery for you."

"Ah, 221. I've been expecting you, though you're a touch earlier than I thought you'd be. I see you've found our friend Dr. Watson."

Watson opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock shoved his head forward with the barrel of his gun before he could say anything. 

Mycroft waved a hand for Sherlock to let him up. "Now, now, no need to be rude." He adressed Watson after that, a look of benign interest on his face. "Seems he hasn't been very kind to you has he? I'm afraid 221's not exactly known for his gentleness. You really should get that gash cleaned. Although," he said with a small smirk, "it seems my agent did not escape the encounter unscathed." He gestured toward Sherlock's split lip and bruised jaw. "You're going to want to ice that."

Sherlock glared at him but kept his silence.

"Now, as for why you're here: I already know. Some new evidence has come to my attention regarding Dr.Watson's apparent crimes-"

Watson raised his head sharply. "But I didn't-!"

Sherlock cut him off. "He says he's not guilty. They all say that, but I don't think he's lying. At least he believes it's true. Frankly, I think he's delusional."

Mycroft smiled. "Actually he's not. He's innocent. I can prove it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How do you know?"

 

The smile widened. "Because there's been another murder."


End file.
